Schizo
by The Bromance Kills
Summary: A story of what John Watson would be like if he had to deal with PTSD as well as a Schizophrenia-related disorder. I AM NOT A MEDICAL EXPERT OF ANY KIND, and most of the facts in the story come from the internet. This is fiction, so please don't get offended. Review if you can.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: Most of this does not belong to me and all I have done is put a few twists in the original story. All rights belong to the BBC, not me.**

**AN: This is a bit of an experiment to see what John would be like if he was a bit of a madman. This is the introduction, and I'll be writing one shots from the original episodes with some changes.**

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"How have you been John?" The therapist asked her voice calm and strangely comforting as she looked steadily at the slumped soldier, "Your treatment and recovery are going well, or so I've heard."

John looked moodily at her, hating her fake happiness and her cool demeanour. She was only doing her job, but John found her constant assessing and examining irksome. She looked at him again with her hawk-like eyes before writing something down on the notepad perched on her lap. John squinted at the scrawl from opposite her, trying to make sense of the upside down writing.

_Not cooperating, stressed, weary._ They were the only words he could make out in the mess of swirly handwriting.

"I am cooperating," He pointed out, annoyed at her quick assumption, "If you would give me the chance, I would have spoke!"

She nodded at him, still keeping up her calm and unruffled attitude.

"I understand John, "She said coolly, "It has not exactly been the best of times for you and I know you're not exactly..._comfortable_ with your condition, but if you just went along with the plan I have outlined for you, I can promise you will feel a lot better."

"No "John replied, not rudely, just very sharply "No offence, but I just feel writing a blog won't help." He sighed angrily, something he seemed to be doing a lot nowadays "I don't want everyone to read about my life anyway, not like _this_"

"John, your condition is temporary," The therapist pointed out, "I've had words with the psychologist, and he specifically said the symptoms were temporary and should be gone in a couple of months. Most patients make a full recovery and never experience the symptoms again-"

Her words gave John little hope. How could he trust the words of this woman when he had been waking up each night, each time terrified by his nightmares and the hallucinations that came with it? Medications barely helped, and it took hours for John to even summon the courage to step out of his bed.

"I'm a madman" He admitted bluntly, clenching his fists as the words escaped his lips, "I'm a raving lunatic and you know it"

"Enforcing this belief will only make the symptoms worse" The therapist said blandly "Schizophreniform disorder is not usually lifelong John and you have to trust me when I say you can get over your symptoms, and the post traumatic stress disorder too, if you would just listen and do what I told you to."

John snorted, having already lost the belief he could ever go back to normal.

"And writing a blog will help me" He said disbelievingly, "A blog. About me. I would have nothing to write about"

"Writing about what happens to you will help relieve stress" The therapist continued stubbornly "And might even distract from your problems. Trust me John; it's vital you go along with your treatment! It could help cure you!"

"Can you promise me that?" John asked quietly, looking at the women through hallowed eyes. She hesitated, something she usually never did while working.

"I can only hope" She replied quietly, genuinely wishing the broken man in front of her a full recovery.

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**Please review and tell me what you thought.**


	2. Chapter 2

**This is how John and Sherlock meet, which is basically the same as the BBC's version but I am looking to put drastic changes in later chapters. Enjoy and please review!**

**Some lines are taken directly from the episode. Only some.**

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Unknown to the therapist, John actually didn't write a single word in his blog, and was vague in his answers when she questioned him about it. Gradually, in a space of three weeks, John was improving and his hallucinations weren't quite so frequent, almost non-existent in fact. Even the regular medication taking wasn't so bad. The therapist could spot improvements and after only around five sessions told him he could go back to normal life.

"Look after yourself John "She had said on their last meeting, "You have my number if you ever need it"

John nodded slightly and without another word, walked out of her office.

/*/*/*/*/*/*/*/*/*

Walking in Westminster was strangely calming, despite the noise and commotion of the city. John received a lot of looks as he limped along with his cane, looking straight down with a dark expression on his face. Even strangers could spot his internal turmoil, and walked as far as they possibly could from him, eyes averted and heads turned.

At around noon, John took a break from looking for a property to rent, and took a short walk in the local park. Renting prices in London were sky high, far too much for his modest army pension. _And _John thought sourly _I'll probably be kicked out once they find out about my little problem._

Unnoticed by John, a largish man sat on the bench had been looking at him in shock as he had shambled past.

"John!" He called out jovially, a surprised smile playing on his lips "John Watson!"

John whirled around to face him, staring blankly for a few seconds before recognition sparked in his eyes.

"Mike Stamford?" He asked hesitantly, the wide smile greeting him confirming his guess.

/*/*/*/

Minutes later, John was sat beside Mike, a cup of coffee in his hand and a warmth in his heart having had spotted someone familiar in the city.

"I heard you got shot?" Mike asked, sipping at his plastic cup "What happened?"

"I got shot" John replied seriously.

The two old acquaintances began talking idly of the past, Mike wisely choosing not to mention Afghanistan. Then they started on John's future and how he was going to live in London with such a tight budget.

"No-one would want to share a flat with me" John muttered bitterly and was surprised when Mike grinned at him.

"You're the second person to say that to me today" Mike laughed, "Come with me John, I think there's someone you'd want to meet."

/*/*/*/*/*/*/*/*/*/**/*/*/*/*/*/*/

Mike took him to St Bart's, a place they had both studied in. The man sitting at one of the workbenches, peering intently through a microscope seemed odd, to say the least. John glanced questioningly at Mike, who smiled encouragingly in return.

"Mike, can I use your phone" The oddball asked, his voice deeper than John was expecting.

John offered his own as a gesture of kindness and was slightly unnerved when the man looked over it intently and then glanced at him. However something was wrong, and when John looked at the man's face, he could've sworn he saw some type of emotion flicker through.

"What're you taking?" He asked, his head cocked curiously. John frowned and looked again at Mike, who seemed just as confused as he was.

"What?" He asked bemusedly, dread stirring in his stomach as he realised what he could be talking about. But that was impossible, he couldn't possibly know. _He couldn't..._

"What're you taking for your condition?" The dark haired weirdo asked, eyes still fixed on John "Any Anti-depressants or anti-psychotics? Haloperidol for example"

John took a deep breath as he realised his secret was out, despite having never seen the man before. How on earth did this man know? Mike couldn't have told him, and the only other people who knew were an unknown psychologist somewhere and his therapist. But they couldn't have been in contact with him, _so how on earth did this man know?_

"Anti-depressants mostly," He said, his voice shaking as he fought to stay calm, "And olanzapine tablets on occasions. Some others too, but they're for emergencies."

The man nodded acceptingly and went back to his microscope, John still staring disbelievingly at his back.

"Hang on a minute John, "Mike said slowly, surprise evident on his face "Olanzapine?! Anti-depressants?! John ... John are you Schizophrenic?!"

John ground his teeth a surge of irritation suddenly overtaking him as he realised he could no longer control the secret now that Mike big-mouth was aware.

"No, I am not" He said fists clenched as he wondered what Mike was probably thinking "It's...temporary. That's what I've been told anyway. It's not permanent Mike."

Mike nodded uncertainly, uncomfortable with the new nugget of knowledge he had gained. There was an awkward silence, but the strange man soon broke it.

"I trust you do not have any problems with the violin?" He asked, staring at John pointedly as he shrugged on his trench coat, "Potential Flatmates should know the worst about each other after all."

Pleasantly surprised that he wasn't acting awkwardly around him nor edging away in alarm, John shook his head.

"No, no Violins are fine," He said, slightly bemused as the man got up and started to make his way out of the room, pressing the mobile into his hand as he passed. "You're still open to the idea of a flat-share? Are you sure?"

The dark headed man raised an eyebrow at him as he unhooked his scarf from a hook and began to arrange it around his neck.

"I don't see why Schizophrenia would be a problem" He said coolly, "I am not prejudiced to those struggling with mental health and you did say it was temporary after all"

"Hang on!" John called, turning around with some difficulty to face him as he made his way to the door "We don't know a thing about each other, I don't know your name, I don't even know where we're meeting!"

The man smirked slightly, looking somewhat approving.

"The name's Sherlock Holmes," He said calmly "And the address is 221B Baker Street. I'll see you there, John"

Without another glance, Sherlock–weirdo-Holmes swept out of the room, leaving the confused John behind.

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**Feel free to tell me what you thought.**


	3. Chapter 3

**Thank you for those that reviewed!**

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_It would be good for me to get out of this hostel _John mused grimly as he threw a couple of toiletries and endless medicines into an old rucksack. The bedroom was plain and tolerable, designed specifically for discharged army members and John hated it. If anything, the sandy coloured walls and the army emblem displayed on everything made memories of Afghanistan stronger.

"Don't be weak!" John scolded himself, as the familiar sounds of Afghanistan began to play in some deep chasm locked inside his brain. The first night in the hostel had been the worst, and John vividly remembered the same noises screeching throughout his dream, paralysing him with terror. He shook his head violently, trying to physically remove the dark thoughts from his head.

"You're in London, You're not fighting-"John muttered to himself, following the advice the Psychologist had given him. Slowly, ever so slowly, the gut-churning fear had died down and John was normal once more.

With his hands shaking and leg notably stiffer than before, John grabbed his bag, slipped his service gun in his belt and hurried out of the room; refusing to look back into his den of nightmares.

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221B proved to be a tolerable place to live, better than the hostel by a mile. It was very weird, with body parts, bullet art, chemicals and morbid books littering the flat in random places. John even spotted a skull grinning at him from the mantelpiece. A sweet old landlady who had a habit of nattering talked non-stop as they settled in.

"This is...interesting" John muttered, frowning at a container with a corrosive badge on it. "But what do you need acid for?" He picked up a thick leather book with an alarming picture of a corpse on the front "And '_How to kill the Unsuspecting'?"_

"Experiment" Sherlock answered breezily, kicking something that looked like a spear under an armchair, "For work and personal research. Ooh, look who's decided to turn up-"

John looked up to see what had caught his attention, which was flashing police lights as a patrol car pulled up outside the building. There was the steady thump of footsteps on the stairs, and a silver haired man ran in.

"Another suicide?" Sherlock asked, unsurprised at the man's unexplained appearance. He nodded.

"Will you come?" Silver hair asked breathlessly, "I'm in a lot of trouble as it is already, and we're all stumped..."

"Of course you are, that's all Scotland Yarders are good for" Sherlock interrupted loftily, "Who's on Forensics?"

"Anderson" The man replied. Sherlock's face turned sour and he turned his back.

"Anderson won't work with me!" He scowled, "I know he'll mess up the evidence! I need an assistant Lestrade!"

/*/

John never thought he would end up riding to a crime scene with his barmy new flatmate, but that was the position he got stuck in. Sherlock was quiet, flicking through something in his phone while John tried to retain the questions milling up inside him. What on earth he was doing here was the query on the forefront of his mind.

"You've got questions" Sherlock stated, looking up at long last.

"Yeah, where are we going?" John asked, peering out of the window, "And why am I here?"

"We're heading towards a crime scene and you're a doctor, you might come in useful" Sherlock answered, and he clammed up for the rest of the journey. John didn't bother to ask him any other questions because he seemed the type of man that was stubborn on even the slightest of actions. And if he didn't want to talk, he wouldn't. So John left him to think in peace.

/*/

After examining the crime scene, John got the feeling that his new flatmate was not very popular with almost all of the police force. Even Lestrade, who was the only one that behaved normally around him, seemed exasperated with his erratic behaviour. John was slightly miffed too, especially when he ran off shouting about a suitcase and leaving John stranded in an area he didn't recognize. He had to ask caramel skinned Sergeant Donovan for directions, which was quite embarrassing.

"He really is a psychopath you know" She called over her shoulder as John began to limp his way to the main street. "An unpredictable psychopath, so I'd stay away from Sherlock Holmes if I were you"

John glared at her retreating back, a strange sense of protectiveness washing over him. Although he barely knew the man, he was already feeling sorry for him. Maybe his condition helped him sympathize with the eccentric detective or maybe John was just too nice for his own good.

/*/

On the main road, the telephones ringing wherever he walked began to freak John out a little, but even more so when he stepped into a telephone box and heard someone say his name. It should have been impossible, but someone seemed to be watching him, spying on him.

"Get into the car, John" The mysterious voice down the line said, and magically, a black Mercedes materialised right next to where John was standing. He hesitated for a second, but soon realised that if the man had the power to turn CCTV cameras away, then perhaps John should just go along with his lunatic plan. He stepped into a car, where a lady glued to her Blackberry was sitting.

"Any point in asking where I'm going?" He asked, already confident of the answer. The lady smiled dazzlingly at him which was strange since she _**was**_ kidnapping him.

"Nope" She replied brightly, "Not at all, John"

John didn't ask her how she knew his name, and when he asked for hers, she concocted one on the spot. Anthea didn't really seem to suit her.

The Mercedes pulled up into a warehouse, empty except for a man twirling his umbrella. John refused to let himself be intimidated by the weirdo, and walked slowly and surely towards him, looking him straight in the eye.

"You know I have a phone" He remarked as he neared the man, "This is very clever and all that but you could have just called me. On my phone."

The umbrella man simply smiled, as if John was a silly child that amused him.

"When one is avoiding the attention of Sherlock Holmes, one leans to be discreet" He replied, cocking his head in a way that was strangely similar. _He acts like my psycho flatmate _John found himself thinking _I wonder how he knows him..._

"I'm just his flatmate, so if you have any business with him, then you can talk to him yourself" John said firmly, gazing steadily at the man, "So can you let me leave now"

"You just met him and now you're living with him" Umbrella man drawled, "We should be expecting a happy announcement at the end of the week, although I must say John, you don't seemed to be very frightened. You have been kidnapped after all"

"You're not very frightening" John retorted, ignoring the smirk playing on the man's mouth. Out of the blue, his phone vibrated, and when he looked at it he could see a new text message. He could already guess who it was from.

_If convenient, come at once to Baker Street-SH_

He guessed correctly.

"Excuse me, am I bothering you?" Umbrella man asked with fake politeness. He narrowed his eyes at John, as if he was looking for something suspicious about his behaviour.

"No, not at all" John muttered distractedly, reading a second message from the same sender.

_If inconvenient, come any way-SH_

"John Watson , I think you should know that I have bought you here to ask for a small favour" Umbrella man continued as soon as John had put his phone away " I am willing to offer a substantial amount of money for ...information on your new flatmate."

"No" John said sharply, before the man had even had the chance to finish " Sorry, but I'm not interested" The man analysed him again, his look making John feel uncomfortable, as if the man was deliberately trying to unsettle him, which he probably was.

"You're very loyal very quickly" He remarked, staring brazenly at him.

"No I'm just not interested" John shot back, refusing to be outwitted, " I'm sorry but it's just not something I want to do, especially since I have nothing against Sherlock."

John turned to go, but the words that came out of the man's mouth next made him freeze.

"I've read your file you know" The man said casually, leaning against his umbrella, "Captain John Watson, Army doctor, good track record, useful in a team." The man smiled patronisingly before continuing "Such a shame you had to get shot. But that's not the problem, is it_, __**Doctor**_? Awful business Schizophrenia, it can make you turn in a split second"

John turned to face the man fully, his jaw clenched in anger. He flexed his fist, lecturing himself not to lose his temper. He had a feeling that umbrella man would _**not**_ take kindly to being attacked.

"Medicines help you to stay relatively normal, don't they Doctor?" The man asked, flicking through a wad of paper he had pulled from his inside jacket pocket, "Ah yes, I see it here, Olanzapine, Haldol, quite an extensive list. Must be so hard to deal with hmm?"

"It's temporary" John muttered, unsure on where the man was planning to go by talking about his condition, " It's temporary and I don't see what it has to do with anything. It's...private."

"There's no such thing as privacy" The man said strongly. "But what I can see happening to you, doctor, is you having ...fits of mania. But I promise you, if you work with me I'll make sure you'll receive the help you need. I doubt Sherlock would be of any help after all. Help me and I'll help you"

"I don't need your help!" John hissed, barely controlling the pent up range inside him "I am not an invalid, I can look after myself!"

"Whatever you want, John" The man said smoothly, beginning to walk away from John and further into the gloomy warehouse "You'll come running to me for help soon enough. I'll be seeing you soon Doctor"

_I doubt it _John growled angrily to himself.

/*/

The rage of the meeting had worn off as soon as John had got back to Baker Street but the annoyance soon came back when he realised Sherlock, (who was lolling about on the sofa plastered in nicotine patches), asked for his phone.

"You called me over here just to ask for your phone?!" John asked incredulously, "Why didn't you get it yourself, or ask Mrs Hudson?"

"I couldn't reach and Mrs Hudson couldn't hear me" Sherlock murmured, closing his eyes as a rush of nicotine hit him. He suddenly sat up with unnatural ease, jumping off the sofa.

"I was on the other side of London!" John complained, but Sherlock waved his hand irritably at his annoyance.

"There was no rush!" He said distractedly, "Get the phone and write out this message..."

Still pissed off at his incredible laziness, John tapped out the strange message and sent it to an unknown number. He turned and was surprised to see the pink suitcase Sherlock was raving on about lying on the sofa, the colour standing out unnaturally amongst the darkness of the flat.

"What-?!" He began to ask but Sherlock cut him off before he had even made a sentence.

"No, I am not the murderer so don't even ask me that!" He warned, rifling through the content of the case. "Why people ask me that is beyond me..."

"I wasn't going to say that actually" John interrupted, "I was just going to ask where you got it from, and who I just sent this message to"

Sherlock seemed surprised at his words, which was quite sad when you thought about it. If everybody he met treated him as Donovan did the John didn't blame him for being so anti social

Sherlock explained, and John wasn't happy to discover he had just sent a text to a murderer but there was nothing he could do about it now.

"I met one of your enemies today" John suddenly blurted out, remembering the infuriating man at the warehouse, "Seems to know you quite well.."

"Did he offer you money to spy on me?" Sherlock asked, unruffled. John nodded, surprised he knew. "And did you take it?"

"No" John replied, "It's nothing to do with me and He was a wanker anyway"

Sherlock actually smiled, and John was quite surprised by the action. The that the longer he spent with the detective, the less likely it seemed that he was as heartless as Donovan had made him out to be. He was a bit rude yes, but everybody had their faults.

"Next time you see him, I would take his offer" Sherlock said, "We need extra help with the rent anyway"

/*/*/

The next time John saw umbrella man was after he had shot the cabbie, and was making his way to Baker Street with Sherlock. They had been giggling like school girls but the humour left John as soon as he saw the man standing some metres away.

"That's him" He whispered, pointing him out, "That's the man that offered me money to spy on you"

Sherlock looked unconcerned and walked towards the man as if he was just another police officer, John trailing uncertainly behind.

"Another case solved then Sherlock" The umbrella man said mildly, looking at the orange shock blanket draped over the detective, "And John too, a pleasure as always"

John snorted, and Sherlock tried to hide the uncharacteristic chuckle threatening to take over his body.

"Immature as always, aren't you Sherlock" Umbrella man commented dryly, "Drove Mummy mad, especially when guests came around"

"I drove her mad?!" Sherlock snapped, "You where the one forever sucking up to her, getting in the way with your sliminess-"

"Wait, who's Mummy?"John asked confused. It sounded really strange, a posh middle-aged man calling someone 'Mummy' "Who's that? Are you two-?"

"Your flatmate is my brother" Umbrella man explained, looking disapprovingly at Sherlock "He was such a handful as a child, but it seems some things never change..."

Sherlock seemed to have enough because he turned away with disgust from his brother, walking away across the road.

"Goodnight Mycroft!" He shouted over his shoulder, and then childishly added "And keep your fat nose out of my business!"

John gazed wonderingly at Mycroft, shocked at the thought of Sherlock growing up with someone else.

"So when you wanted me to spy on him" He began to ask wonderingly "You asked because you were worried?"

Mycroft sighed, sounding just like a troubled old woman.

"He was always such a handful" He repeated, "And I worry about him constantly. My offer is still open John, so if we could negotiate on treatment now..."

John's eyes flashed with anger, and the hatred towards Mycroft suddenly returned.

"No "He said angrily "And I'll keep on saying no. I don't need any of your help, _Mycroft, _so if you don't mind, I'll be off now."

Without another look back, John ran off after Sherlock and together the pair disappeared into a side street. Mycroft watched them, sighing, as he remembered Sherlock using those exact same words back when he was an addict and Mycroft offered him help.

"Better keep an eye on them" He muttered to Anthea, who nodded understandingly, "Doctor John Watson and Sherlock Holmes,"

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**This took forever, and I still had to miss out a large part of the case. Please review and tell me what you thought, or any ideas anyone has.**

**Belongs to the BBC.**


	4. Chapter 4

John's first manic attack at Baker Street was not pleasant, nor was it expected.

It took place around three weeks after he had first settled in, just when John was beginning to sincerely believe he was more a less back to normal. His medicines were abandoned in a dusty corner of his bedroom and his nights were peaceful, all his dreams uneventful and forgotten. That was of course until one Thursday night, when a nightmare triggered off all John's old symptoms.

From the moment his eyelids flew open, John knew what was happening but he still couldn't control the crazy merry go-round of sounds and flitting shapes. His nightmare was somehow playing before his eyes even though he was awake, and he found himself ducking and crawling on his floor, as if he was on an imaginary battlefield. Soldier's yells pierced the tranquillity of the night, and John tore at his ears in a useless attempt to stop the sounds.

Panting like a rabid wolf, with his eyes wide and pained, John stumbled over to his rucksack, ripping it open and snatching the first thing he could find. The bag tore at the seams and John fumbled with the package in his hand, dazedly making his way to the kitchen and away from the madness of the bedroom.

The corridor, which was darker than the rest of the flat, was perhaps not the best place for John to venture out into in his state, but there was nothing he could do about it now. The hallucinations became firmer and more realistic, and they moved in one grotesque mass. Most of them took the shape of disfigured men, faceless with gaping, screaming mouths, but there were also other creatures. They made no sense but they bombarded John, clawing at his clothes as he swore and tried to get as far from them as possible.

He shambled into the kitchen, falling to his knees as he imagined something rocketing down to him from above, sounding suspiciously like a bomb. He scrambled at the package; his fingers ripping the box open with unusual strength. A vial and injection fell out, along with a swab and a thick wad of paper containing warnings of side-effects and dosages. Strictly speaking, John was not meant to be using the medicine on himself, but he was a doctor and thought he could manage well enough if there ever came an emergency.

How wrong he was.

He tried to drink a glass of water to calm himself down before he injected himself, but he was attacked with an assault on his ears and the glass shattered, spilling water and glass shards everywhere. The piercing noise continued and John yelled with frustration, shattering another glass as he threw it as hard as he could to the other side of the room.

'_Oh God, what am I doing?!' _John thought dazedly, looking at his bleeding hands in shocked disgust '_what have I become?!'_

The jagged cut on his palm distorted and widened as his hallucinations danced, and John began to panic, preparing the injection as fast as he could with shaking blood-stained hands. And then something really unexpected happened.

One of the dancing faceless men suddenly became real and a hand shot out, closing around John's wrist firmly.

Of course, John completely flipped. He couldn't handle his nightmares becoming true;it was too much for a sane man to deal with. He overpowered the man quite easily, clasping his throat with wet,bloody hands.

Sherlock gasped for air, watching John's expression with fascination. Even though he was on the brink of being knocked out, he couldn't help but marvel at the change that had come over the usually quiet and like-able man. John looked frankly frightening, his teeth bared in a snarl and his eyes glowering with murderous hatred. The shorter male dug his nails into Sherlock's throat, making the detective hiss in pain.

"I'm trying to help!" Sherlock gasped, finally managing to throw John off him. He knelt on his chest, digging his knees in hard and the doctor moaned, clawing at his suit uselessly. "Now bear with me as I try to work out this thing..."

Sherlock skimmed his eyes over the leaflet, trying to digest as much information as possible before John managed to break free. Risperdal looked simple enough to administer, but Sherlock knew the consequences of even a slight overdose. He knew he'd have to be careful.

He prepared the injection in double quick time, pushing John's shirt sleeve up to find a suitable place for an injection. He avoided the left shoulder, reminding himself about the painful and still healing bullet wound there. He smothered the area in antiseptic, before pushing the needle in and depositing the contents inside.

John hissed in angered pain, arching his back as much as he could but Sherlock managed to keep a good hold. Ten minutes passed in that way, with Sherlock waiting and John panting frantically. John finally managed to become stable so Sherlock released him, standing up and beginning to sweep away the shards glass everywhere and wash the bloodstains down the sink. He offered to help John with his hands but the doctor gave him such a glaring look, Sherlock left him alone.

"Are you all right now?" He asked, but John didn't respond, sitting with his back resting on a cupboard and his face hidden in his knees. " You'll feel horrible for a couple of days, and I expect you won't do much but sleep but you should be fine-"

" I've never gotten that out of control before" The curled up figure interrupted, in a scratchy voice "I don't know _why _I became like that, I'm usually just fine.."

" It's very unpredictable" Sherlock agreed, " You should just be happy you didn't manage to kill me, or hurt yourself..."

John groaned and Sherlock got the feeling that his comment was unwanted and unappreciated. He glanced apprehensively at John and was surprised and thrown completely off balance to see that his shoulder's were shaking, in a very quiet form of weeping. He opened his mouth to say something reassuring but he closed it again as he realised he couldn't muster anything comforting. This was _exactly_ the sort of thing Sherlock found so awkward, and one of many reasons why he didn't like people.

"John" He called out shortly, his voice quiet " You should go back to sleep, this isn't going to help anything.."

"Why did _you_ get out of bed?" John asked forcefully, rubbing at his streaming eyes angrily." Leave me, I can look after myself fine-"

"Well, you evidently can't" Sherlock shot back scathingly but he softened his voice considerably as he saw the doctor flinch "I'm only trying to help you, John."

John scowled but he appeared too tired to reply. He stood shakily, squinting at Sherlock suspiciously as he realised he was still in a suit, even in the dead of night.

"Did you go to bed like _that_?" He asked disapprovingly, sounding remarkably like a fussing mother. "Why-"

" I wasn't tired" Sherlock cut in, annoyed " I slept yesterday,and the extra rest would rot my brain"

John stared at him exasperatedly, but he no longer found Sherlock's habits so strange any more. He blinked heavily, still seeing remnants of shadowy hallucinations despite the medicine. His hearing didn't feel too good either.

"I'm kipping on the sofa tonight" He muttered, a minuscule slur to his words. He lurched towards the living room and didn't complain as Sherlock grabbed his elbow, steadying him. "I'll be really woozy tomorrow so don't take notice of anything I say, and don't try and stop me if I take a load of tablets-"

" Is that really wise?" Sherlock questioned, guiding him to the darkened living room and depositing him gently on the sofa " Over-dosing might create far more problems for you.."

"I know my doses" John snapped wearily, no real malice in his voice "And I'm pretty sure the Risperdal was unnecessary.."

"So why did you bring it with you?" Sherlock sighed " I'm not good at looking after people, so don't blame me if I end up neglecting you horribly and you end up in hospital..."

"I can look after myself" John muttered before falling into a sudden deep sleep. Sherlock looked extremely miffed but that didn't stop him from draping an old tartan rug over the sleeping man, or levering his head with a pillow.

" Silly man" Sherlock grunted, looking over at the unconscious figure, but he knew he didn't mean it. After all, just a few years back, he had been in almost exactly the same position,except that he had inflicted it all upon himself.

'_Well' _Sherlock mused thoughtfully '_I'd better make sure John Watson doesn't stay like this for too long...'_

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**I know it's short but I'm hoping to write longer chapters soon.**

**Reviews, please?**


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